How Time Flies
by lovablegeek
Summary: [PostRENT] Mark thinks that maybe Roger should have one last Christmas... even if it is August. [Oneshot]


Christmas was always Roger's favorite time of the year. Not that he would ever admit it, Mark knew, not that he'd ever admit to having a favorite time of the year at all, but somehow Mark knew it was – he always got brighter, happier, around Christmastime, never mind what everyone said about depression and suicide rates skyrocketing in December. Spring was almost inevitably wet and rainy, summers too hot, and Roger hated the fall, everything was dying then, and April had killed herself in November, so... Christmastime. Roger was always happy around that time of year, and for some reason the other thing Mark could think of looking at him right now was that he probably wouldn't get another one, that he'd be lucky to make it to the end of September.

Roger caught Mark looking at him and raised his eyebrows, half-snapping, "What?" Mark could tell he didn't mean it, so he didn't let it bother him. Roger liked to snap at people, see if he could catch them off guard, startle them – it was a bit like the way he'd play with the cane he'd started to need this past year and a half or so, sticking it between people's legs when they walked by him, see if he could trip them up, see if they could piss them off. Mark never let either get to him.

"Nothing," he said, and shook his head.

What did get to him were... other things, thing Roger couldn't control. The series of coughs and little sicknesses that never seemed to let up, the things that Roger insisted were just colds but they never could be just colds with him. The number of visible bruises he had at any given moment (seven, right now), and the many others he probably couldn't see. How pale Roger looked, how thin he was lately, or the fact that he needed that damn cane at all. Those were the things Mark let bother him, if only because he simply couldn't stop them.

"You were looking at me kind of weird for nothing," Roger pointed out, and Mark rolled his eyes.

"I was thinking. It's not my fault you got in the way of the empty space I was staring into." Mark leaned against the counter and tapped his fingers on the counter top, his eyes turning away from Roger until he was certain he wouldn't start crying. Abruptly, once assured he'd gotten control of himself, he asked, "What do you want for Christmas?"

The question slipped out without thinking about it, and Mark frowned almost as soon as it was spoken. What did he want for Christmas? What kind of a stupid question was that? Even if he had been thinking about it – Christmas, at least, if not necessarily gifts or what he'd get Roger... Roger stared at him for a while, without speaking, and then said slowly, "Alright, Mark. There's this thing we like to call a calendar, and if you'd look at it, you'd realize that it is not, in fact, anywhere near December–"

"Shut up. You don't have to be a smart ass." Mark stepped around the counter so that he was standing on the near side, closer to Roger, and hopped up onto it, palms spread flat on the counter top. "I was just asking."

"Yeah, well," Roger said, and shifted on the couch to put his feet up on one of the arms, I'll get back to you when it's a little closer to December. Like, say, October. November, even, if you want to really push it to the last minute. Or any other time it's not summer and ninety degrees outside."

"Right," Mark said slowly, sat there for a moment, and then jumped off the counter again. He couldn't sit there talking about this, about Octobers and Novembers and holidays that wouldn't come, not for Roger. Roger seemed all ready to disregard it, ignore it, pretend it wasn't happening and joke about it like this, but Mark couldn't do that, couldn't pretend this was nothing and unimportant when it was everything, the only thing he could think about lately.

Roger coughed, and Mark tried to ignore it, but he couldn't help noticing that it was one of those dry, painful coughs that always tore at Roger's chest, and he couldn't help wincing in sympathy. "You want something to eat? Soup, maybe?"

"I hate soup," Roger pointed out.

Mark sighed, and nodded slightly, and decided not to ask if he wanted anything else to eat – he already knew the answer anyway. "Right. I forgot."

For a moment neither of them said anything, Roger quietly watching Mark, and Mark staring at the kitchen cabinets and trying to think of something to do with himself that didn't involve food, or leaving Roger alone, or thinking about Christmas. Roger neatly foiled that last part of the plan with his next question.

"Since when do we get each other things on Christmas anyway?"

"Huh?"

"Since when do we get Christmas presents for each other?"

Mark smiled wryly and turned back toward Roger. "We don't."

"And why is that?" Roger prompted, eyebrows raised and his expression so perfectly composed that Mark couldn't quite tell if that question was actually serious or if he was just baiting Mark to get some sort of response out of him – though what that response would be, Mark couldn't quite guess.

"Because we never have any cash."

"Exactly," Roger said with a firm nod, and closed his eyes. Mark waited to see if he was going to say anything more, but there was nothing forthcoming, and Roger didn't open his eyes, so at last Mark concluded that was all.

He knew he shouldn't, knew that pressing the issue was probably a stupid idea, but he had to say it anyway, even if it was idiotic and hopelessly optimistic and slightly pathetic. "Maybe this year, though?"

Roger didn't answer for almost a minute, and then let out a slow breath, his eyes still closed, head tilted back. There was a bruise on his jawline, more visible when he tilted his head like that. Roger said he didn't know how he'd gotten it. Mark believed him, and somehow the fact that he didn't know bothered him more.

"Yeah, maybe this year," Roger said at last, and Mark realized suddenly that Roger knew just as well as he did that there was going to be no Christmas or chance to give gifts this year, nor any other after.

* * *

"It's a bad idea, isn't it?"

Mark didn't look at Collins as he spoke, instead focusing on the walls of the Life Cafe, as ever decorated with chalk drawings and scrawled specials, and wondering how long Collins would be in town this time. He got the feeling, somehow, that it would probably be at least until Roger...

Mark turned his mind away from that before he could come to the conclusion of that thought.

Collins had gotten an apartment in the West Village, not that long ago, and had asked if Mark wanted to come over there to talk, but that meant either a subway ride – Mark didn't think he had even the two dollars necessary – or a long walk in this heat, out of the question. Collins had decided to come see him, though Mark hadn't expected Maureen and Joanne to come along too, and wasn't sure whether to be glad for that or not. It wasn't that he disliked their presence, but it would've been easier to talk about this had it just been him and Collins. But at least the Life was air conditioned, unlike the loft.

"Not necessarily," Collins said. "It might be good for him."

Maureen leaned back in her chair, graceful and elegant and catlike, one arm hooked behind her chair back, and when she looked at Mark she tilted her head to the side, a bit of her hair sliding into her face. Mark automatically curled his hand into a fist and fought down the impulse to lean across the table and brush it back for her. "Where is he, by the way?" she asked.

"Home," Mark said with a bit of a shrug, as if it didn't matter, and tried to ignore Joanne's sympathetic look. "He... he didn't feel like going out today. But he told me to say hi to you guys, for him." Mark fought to keep the worry and pain out of his tone, only somewhat successfully. "Not feeling like it" was a euphemism, or perhaps just an excuse, one he and Roger shared without ever a mention of what it really meant. "Not feeling like it" was just a way to disguise or deny the effects of time and disease.

Maureen shot Mark a look that made it seem she was personally affronted. "You just left him? Alone?"

"Well, what was I supposed to do?" Mark demanded, too tired to really snap at her, but the annoyance was clear. "Drag him along? Stay and babysit him? Either one's gonna piss him off, and I'd really like to avoid that."

"You could at least–"

"Honeybear," Joanne said, softly but with enough of a warning in her tone to, surprisingly, silence Maureen. Maureen closed her mouth with a bit of a frown, and Mark couldn't help but sigh in relief. She meant well, but sometimes it was just necessary to shut her up. He fiddled unnecessarily with his water glass, shifting it aside and frowning at the ring left on the table, allowing his attention to be captured by the way the water scattered the light on the table around it, for no other reason than that he needed something just then to capture his attention.

"That's the problem, you know."

"What?" Collins asked.

"This whole... Christmas thing. It'll piss him off."

"I think it's sweet," Maureen said softly.

Mark shook his head and smiled wryly. "There's only one reason we'd even consider doing this, and we know it, and he'd know it. Do you think he'd want that thrown in his face?"

Collins shifted a little, and Mark turned to look at him. "He already knows, Mark."

"Yeah," Mark said softly. "I guess. I just... I don't know. It just seems like a bad idea."

"Do it anyway," Collins suggested lightly. "If he gets pissed off, you can blame it on me." Mark couldn't suppress a soft laugh and a smile, the kind of smile only Collins could ever draw out of him, reluctant and yet genuine. He nodded, though still with the conviction in the back of his mind that Roger was going to kill him – or want to, at least. Or maybe he'd just get sulky and quiet and shut himself in his room for a couple days.

"You'll stop by the loft soon? I mean, Roger's... probably asleep now, so it wouldn't be a good idea now, even if it's just up the street, but..." He was answered by Collins' amused expression, as if he thought it silly Mark had ever had any doubt. Mark smiled and said quietly, "Right."

"I can bring cookies," Maureen suggested, and Mark shot her a concerned look. He remembered some of the things that used to happen when they were all living in the loft, and the incidents that occurred whenever Maureen so much as looked at the stove or the oven...

"No, thanks, that's–"

"Have you ever baked anything in your life?" Joanne asked. Maureen turned to look at her indignantly.

"Not really, but how hard can it be?"

Joanne didn't answer her – instead, she looked to Mark, who had ducked his head, hand shielding his face so Maureen couldn't see him fighting to suppress laughter. As Joanne watched, he mouthed "good luck," and gave up the attempt to fight down his amusement, allowing himself to fall into soft, almost silent laughter. It occurred to him that he might be hysterical, that the pressure of taking care of Roger and being aware of the truth and the inevitability of the matter might be making him crack. It occurred to him a moment later that it didn't really matter.

* * *

Collins wasn't always right, Mark thought, and Roger wasn't always predictable. Images leapt into his mind, of a younger Roger, always explosive, and unexpectedly so, like kerosene around an open flame – you could guess that it was going to light up, but never exactly when, and there had been those minor blowouts between Roger and one of his roommates at least twice a week in those days. Or more recently, just after Angel died...

"Are you sure Roger should go?" he'd asked Collins hesitantly, when Collins told him he wanted them all at the funeral. It made sense, that they would all be there, but... "If he sees Mimi with Benny..."

"I'll talk to him," Collins had said. "He'll behave, for my sake." And he'd looked so tired and worn, and so hurt, soul-deep, that Mark hadn't wanted to argue with him, though maybe he should have, given the way things turned out that time. But the point, really, was that Collins had been wrong before when it came to Roger, and could be now, and if he was... Mark didn't want to think about that. Anyway, he should probably spare his attention for more immediate things, like balancing on the chair he was standing on to hang these damn lights on the window frame. If he fell and cracked his head open, he wouldn't even have to worry about Roger getting upset and wanting to kill him.

He hadn't thought it would be so difficult to hang Christmas lights, really, but as soon as he thought that he remembered he'd never actually done this, it had always been April and after that they just... hadn't... so maybe his estimation of this sort of thing had been wrong all along. he thought he had them neatly hooked on the window frame, draped over the curtain rod that had always been there over the window though they had no curtains, but as soon as he moved his hand away, it slipped again. Maybe if he put some nails up on the wall to hang it on it would stay, but for one thing, if they had a hammer and nails anywhere in the loft, it was news to Mark, and for another, Roger was sleeping in his room and Mark didn't want to make the noise to wake him up.

"What the hell are you doing?" Roger asked from the doorway of his bedroom, off to Mark's left. Mark jumped, his foot slipped, and he tumbled off the chair, landing flat on his back on the bare floor. The string of Christmas lights followed a second later, falling directly on top of him in a tangled heap. Mark didn't move for a second or two, just lay there staring at the ceiling. That had hurt. Not so much the lights, but the falling part... or, rather, the hitting the ground part...

"Geez, Mark, are you alright?" Roger asked, and started towards him, his cane clicking lightly on the floor in an uneven rhythm. Mark groaned and rolled over to push himself up, glancing at the chair he'd fallen off of as if it was the chair's fault.

"I'm fine," he muttered. "I'm..." He grimaced, rubbing his tailbone. "Ow. Fine."

"What the hell were you doing?" Roger repeated calmly, eying Mark with a mixture of amusement and suspicion. Mark realized part of the string of lights was still looped around his neck, and quickly yanked it off, letting it fall to the floor.

"I don't..." Mark began, then trailed off. He didn't speak for a moment, then tilted his head to one side, frowning at Roger. "I thought you were sleeping."

"Yeah, I was. I woke up. Funny how that happens." He paused and shifted his weight onto his cane, still frowning at Mark. After a moment, his eyes flickered away, to the string of lights on the ground, and then back up to Mark's face. "Mark, we had this conversation before, you know? There's this thing called a calendar, and according to that it's only–"

"August, I know," Mark sighed, not quite meeting Roger's eyes. "I just... thought it would be nice?"

"It's Christmas lights," Roger said flatly. He frowned at him and added after a second, "Where'd you even find those? We don't have Christmas lights?"

"We did. I mean, we do. They were... in the back of one of the closets." Mark's voice was barely more than a mumble, and only just. "We just haven't used them since..." Too many Christmases ago. He couldn't even remember when the last time they'd actually put them up was. Maybe the year before April died. Maybe a year before that.

Mark looked down and scratched the back of his head, still avoiding direct eye contact. He could still feel Roger's eyes on him, though, an almost tangible pressure, a weight he couldn't quite ignore. For several seconds, Roger was completely silent and motionless, and then he turned away, shifting his weight off of his cane.

"For Christ's sake, Mark..." he muttered under his breath, starting back toward his bedroom, and Mark could tell Roger was going to shut himself up in his room for a while, God knew how long. Mark reacted without thinking, lunging forward to grab Roger's cane, stop him from walking away before Mark could explain. Roger stumbled, caught himself after a moment and turned to glare at Mark, yanking his cane out of Mark's grip with a cold, faintly disgusted expression.

"Don't do that. Try it again, and I swear to God I'll hurt you." For once, Mark believed him – he looked angry enough to follow through on the threat. Mark stepped back, lifting his hands and hoping desperately that Roger wouldn't leave, that he'd just... give Mark a chance to fix it somehow. Roger settled himself, clenching and unclenching his hand on the cane. Letting his hands fall, Mark watched him silently, waiting for Roger to move or yell at him, one or the other. He did neither.

"I'm not stupid, Mark," he said quietly. "I know why you're doing this, and it's not for me."

"Roger, what–"

"No, shut up." Roger's voice was still quiet, surprisingly calm. That in itself was somewhat unnerving – Mark could tell he was upset, and Roger wasn't the kind to get quiet when upset. He screamed, yelled, hit things... "I'm dying. Soon. And this?" He gestured to the Christmas lights on the floor behind Mark. "What is that, to make yourself feel better? You think you're doing me a favor?"

"I just wanted to–"

Roger slammed his free hand on the table, and Mark recoiled. When he spoke again, he'd raised his voice to drown out any further interjections Mark might have. "You can't fucking screw with the calendar! You can't just pretend it's Christmas like that's going to do anything but remind me I'll be dead before then. You don't get it, and you won't, so you know what? Fuck off."

He turned away, back to his room, shaking the hand he'd slammed on the table like he'd hurt himself when he did. Mark stood there for a second, somewhat stunned. Roger hadn't yelled at him like that in years, not since after April, before Mimi, and for a moment he didn't know how to respond.

A moment later he remembered just what would happen if he let Roger go now, remembered that there would be a day or week of Roger shut in his room, coming out only when absolutely necessary, for food or to use the bathroom. And he remembered that today, now, he couldn't afford losing even that much time with Roger. At least it didn't take that much effort to catch Roger before he made it to the door of his room, and Mark grabbed his arm lightly, hoping that wouldn't set off another outburst. Roger stopped and just looked at him, waiting for him to speak.

"I'm sorry," Mark said softly, ducking his head a little and looking at Roger sideways, rather than straight on, as if that would make it easier to say, or easier for Roger to hear. "I never meant to... I'm sorry." He took a breath. "Do you want to go out somewhere?"

"And do what?" Roger asked, a little suspiciously.

"Just... take a walk," Mark said with a shrug, letting go of Roger and allowing his hand to drop to his side. "Out in the park or something." He paused, and then added hesitantly, "Here. Now. On August eleventh, in the disgusting heat and no Christmas decorations or anything."

Roger smiled a little, seemingly despite himself, and gave a slight nod. "Yeah, sure." Mark let out a relieved sigh, also despite himself, and smiled back, starting toward the door with a slight tilt of his head to indicate for Roger to follow. He left the Christmas lights lying there on the floor, knowing that they wouldn't be used ever again.


End file.
